


Blue Jean Blue

by Maggie McCain (laurakaye)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Maggie%20McCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts wander when meetings run long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Jean Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are due to cofax, for de-schmooping, and Paula, for the crayons. Dedicated to Missy, because I depressed her and she helped me anyway.

It's a difficult decision to make.

There are a million different shades to choose from, enough to fill a case of Crayola boxes. Royal blue? Too purple. Navy blue? Too dark, although the name has a certain appropriateness. Midnight blue is too black; slate blue is too gray. 

I remember this game that Samantha and I used to play. She had the good box of crayons-- the really big one with the built-in sharpener, the one that all the kids wanted. She was always careful with her crayons; I can't remember her ever breaking one. Anyway, she would color something, and try to make me guess what color she had used. I can still see her, hands on her hips and one tooth missing. 

"Guess this one, Fox!" she would say. I'd sigh and glance at her paper. 

"It's green."

"Huh-uh," she'd say, confident in her seven-year-old superiority. "It's **_blue_**-green."

"I thought you said the last one was blue-green."

"Nope, that was green-blue."

I think I memorized the name of every one of those crayons. Amazing the things that turn out to be useful in life.

I do a mental run-through of the blues I know, seeking the one name that will feel right to me. Seal blue, teal blue, aqua, cobalt, periwinkle. Sky blue, mist blue, baby blue, cerulean blue.

Ouch. Bad memories. Definitely not cerulean.

"Agent Mulder?"

I start a bit, yanking my thoughts out of the past and back into the conference room. "Yes, sir?"

"You were shaking your head. Do you disagree with Agent Johnston's analysis?"

The part of my brain that was paying attention to the meeting backpedals frantically. Johnston, Johnston... ah. Computerized expense report filing.

"No, sir, I think his analysis is very insightful."

Scully lifts an eyebrow from across the table, and it's all I can do not to grin at her. She knows quite well I wasn't listening to Mike Johnston, who is now defending his report to Fenley from White-Collar Crimes. I scribble something in my notes and nod thoughtfully as I let my mind drift again.

Delft blue? Ice blue? Cornflower? Close, but... not quite.

Actually, it's more the color of blue jeans. Not the kind that are coming back into style now, so stiff with indigo dye that you leave smudges everywhere the first three times you wear them: that color is too rigid. And not any of those designer fancy blues you used to see in the 80s; it's a more natural shade than that.

The color I'm thinking of is the exact color of everyone's favorite jeans. Every American has a pair, the ones that are older than your career, the ones that your mom has tried to throw away at least twice. Those are the jeans that have been washed so many times they have a nap like baby velvet, the ones that hug your legs as if they love you.

Those jeans are the textile equivalent to comfort food. The cuffs are frayed, the seams are frayed, there are tiny holes next to the rivets, and the back pocket has a faded patch in the shape of your wallet. 

Those jeans speak of comfort and baseball, bowl games and lazy Saturdays when the only obligation you have is the Knicks game at seven. They're better loungewear than pajamas, better activewear than Umbros. They are the ultimate in versatility. 

They are a perfect fit.

There are newer clothes, fancier clothes, prettier clothes, costlier clothes. But there are never any clothes that are as well loved as those jeans.

Scully notices my preoccupation, and shoots me a look from across the conference table that somehow combines affection and annoyance. As it hits me, I can almost hear it thwack like that line drive I took on the shin in Little League the summer I was nine.

I realize that I'm not thinking about denim anymore.

I look down at my meeting notes, and just below a notation on the new FBI template for inter-departmental memos is a list of all my rejected blues. If she sees it, I'll just say I'm trying to decide on a new color to paint my bathroom wall. I'm not fool enough to tell her what I was really doing.

I'm no poet. But if I were, I'd try to capture all the things that make her Scully, to wrap them in eloquent words. I would show the world my partner, with her smile that undoes me, her arms that uphold me, her voice that uplifts me, and her eyes, that perfect blue jean blue. 


End file.
